


Just Rest

by Shoulder_Devil



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Internal Conflict, burning corpse, poor justifications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-23 22:41:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16168301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoulder_Devil/pseuds/Shoulder_Devil
Summary: aka: 5 times Jon didn't burn the skin page and the one time he didJon's various struggles with the decision to finally grant Gerry peace.





	1. 1 - Tear

The Archivist took a deep breath and ran his fingers along the edges of the scarred flesh of the last page. His right hand twitched in sympathy as he recalled the statement mentioning Gerard’s extensive burns. The flesh around a small, tattooed eye over what must have been his heart was the only place unmarked unblemished by his encounter with the Lightless Flame. Ink picked out Gerard Keay’s last moments in a hand Jon recognized as belonging to Gertrude Robinson.  

The Archivist began to read.

Gerard Keay was standing in front of Jon. Well, part of him anyway. Enough to talk to, to get some answers from. Finally someone who knew what was going on, who had years of dealing with the supernatural firsthand.  Gerard Keay who worked so closely with Gertrude, who could give him insight to what she was doing. Gerard Keay who could help him save the world.

And he refused to tell him anything; wanted Jon to burn his page. Every part of him protested at the thought. The Archivist was practically salivating at the wealth of potential knowledge before him. More so now that his questions had been rebuffed, denying him only sharpened the craving. Every time Jon thought he’d finally found something he could actually use it turned out to be a dead end. 

In this case literally. 

If Gerard had an actual physical form, Jon would have shaken him by the shoulders. Maybe it was for the best. Gerard seemed the kind of man likely to punch him if Jon pushed too far.

In the end, his need for knowledge to stop the Unknowing overrode his sense of self preservation and his fear of the Hunters. He reluctantly tore Gerard’s flesh free from the book. He wouldn't burn it now, couldn’t. Not until he had answers. They struck a deal, Gerard would tell Jon what he knew in exchange for a promise to burn his page when they finished.

An almost static like sensation hung in the air as Gerry dissipated. Jon deflated slightly in his absence. The Archivist felt his hand fall against the lighter in his pocket. 

He did not reach for it.

 


	2. 2 - Cookout

The smell of cooking meat settled in the Archivist’s nostrils. Despite his growling stomach, Jon was very aware he didn’t actually want to consume the sizzling flesh of Max Musterman or whatever the hell that thing was that called itself that. The Hunters had taken their time testing the limits of it (him?) but had finally decided they were done with it. 

Julia tossed the last of the severed limbs onto the fire sending a shower of sparks toward the night sky. The fire dimmed but rebounded quickly, cracking and spitting as it consumed the fat. Jon was nearly certain the thing was dead for sure this time. They had made sure the throat and lungs had been sufficiently destroyed before stoking the fire with its corpse. In the unlikely event Max was still alive somehow Jon wouldn’t have to hear him-- it scream. 

Not anymore at least.

He couldn’t look away. Jon told himself it was because he had to be certain Musterman was reduced to ash. That it wouldn’t be able to follow him or send another after him. That wasn’t why though, the Archivist needed to watch for the sake of watching, to observe and catalog every crack in its flesh as blood bubbled, skin split, and muscle blackened. 

A log shifted causing Max’s head to look directly at Jon. For a moment, he saw Gerry’s face in those flames, his expression caught somewhere between pain and accusation. He gasped and nearly tripped over Trevor as he startled away. A rough hand landed on his back to keep him from falling, or, more likely, by the way the fingers dug into his shoulder, to keep him from fleeing

“Easy now. No need to get worked up. He won’t be getting back up again. We made sure of that.” 

“I-I know,” Jon froze in the older man’s grip. “It just… startled me. That’s all.” 

Julia made a noise that was part laugh and part scoff from across the fire. “You get used to it.” She held up a blood spattered shirt to examine it and shook her head, tossing it into the flames. “It’s a shame really, I liked that shirt.” 

“That’s why I don’t get attached to my possessions. Makes it easier to get rid of them when you need to. Isn’t that right, Archivist?” Trevor released Jon’s shoulder and landed a smack on his back. 

“Yes, I, uh, I suppose so.” Jon adjusted the collar on the borrowed t-shirt he wore. Jon’s own ruined shirt had been soaked with gasoline and used to start the fire before them. “Thank you, by the way.” 

Jon hesitantly returned his gaze to Musterman’s head in the fire, half afraid he would see Gerry’s features twisting in agony when he looked. He let out a breath in relief when all he saw was the vague impression of a head. The smoking eye sockets seemed to stare right at him but the Archivist had long since passed the place where a sight like that would truly bother him. 

Gerry though.

_ I want you to take my page and burn it. _

Jon was acutely aware of the skin of his hip against the page hidden there. It was too bulky to fold up and put in a pocket without arousing suspicion so he’d tucked the stolen page into the waistband of his underwear on the outside of his left leg. It felt disrespectful, effectively shoving what was left of Gerard Keay down his pants but his decision was justified when Julia demanded his shirt to burn.  

He was very thankful he’d managed to avoid getting any bits of Musterman on his trousers. If he had, Jon was sure the pair of Hunters would be disposing of two bodies right now. Assuming they killed him quickly. 

It was that thought that stayed his hand, kept him from throwing the page on the fire. Julia and Trevor had barely left him alone since he’d talked to Gerry. Neither of them seemed to be looking at him right now, but that didn’t mean they weren’t watching. 

Jon lost track of how long the three of them watched the fire in relative silence. He felt Gerry’s scarred skin against his own whenever he shifted his weight. It was warm, probably from the fire, and he really shouldn’t find it comforting. 

_ Hide my page, and when you’re out of here, burn it. _

It was too risky to try burning it here, while he was still being held by the Hunters. For now, keeping it hidden would have to do. 

 


	3. 3 - Motel

The cheap motel mattress squealed in protest as Jon eased himself down. He scrubbed a hand over his face, pushing his glasses up to rub at the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to soothe away the pressure building behind his eyes. He’d taken a statement recently so was fairly certain this was garden variety exhaustion and not something more… 

_ More what, exactly? Supernatural? I suppose that is what my life is now,  _ he thought.  _ Feed or be fed upon. _

He sighed and fell back onto the bed. The textured plaster ceiling blurred as he lay there starring up, not sure if he was trying to see or trying not to see. His flight home leaves tomorrow and he really should try and get some sleep. If it was anything like his journey out, he wouldn’t get any sleep on the plane. There were things he needed to do first though, get himself cleaned up for one. The last time he caught himself in a mirror he looked worse than Trevor.

But there was one thing in particular he’d been avoiding. 

Gerard’s-- Gerry’s page was tucked into a corner of his bag. It seemed disrespectful to put him in there, wrapped in a dirty t-shirt but there really hadn’t been anywhere else to hide it. Certainly not on his person for longer than he had to, not with two Hunters keen to find any excuse to kill him.

The more he thought about the page, and Gerry, the more guilt mixed with his exhaustion to weigh him down. Just sitting up seemed an insurmountable task, let alone standing and crossing the room to his bag. Jon wanted to release Gerry, he did, but was this really the place to do it? A budget motel with faded wallpaper and mystery stains on the ceiling. 

In America? 

No, Gerry deserved better. He deserved to go home. Not-- Not to Jon’s home specifically. He didn’t-- It wasn’t like that. London, he would take the page back with him to London and burn it there. 

Having settled on decision, the Archivist felt immediately better. He knew he hadn’t resolved things, not really, just put them off for another day. The problems of smuggling what accounted to human remains through customs were easily dismissed as Jon kicked his shoes off and pulled his legs up on the bed. 

He was asleep before he’d managed to crawl fully under the covers. 

  
  



	4. 4 - Unpack

_ Gertrude Robinson certainly was full of surprises _ , Jon mused as he examined the case of plastic explosive. Bringing it to his flat was probably a violation of his renter’s agreement but he didn’t intend to keep it there for long. He’ll get the case to Daisy as soon as it’s safe to move.

His eyes wandered to the low table in front of the couch where his battered luggage sat. Everything he brought back from America was in that scuffed gym bag. It was past time he unpacked everything. Including the… souvenir he’d acquired. 

Pity he lost his rolling bag back in America, he could have started there. Well,  _ lost _  wasn’t the most accurate of terms, more like forced to abandon. It was probably sitting in some back room at a Greyhound station, one more anonymous bag in a sea of lost luggage. Jon sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, there was probably a metaphor for his life in there somewhere.

Jon pulled the wrinkled clothes from the bag to reveal Gerry’s skin page. The dark ink of the tattooed eye pulled at his vision, was the eye that prominent when he last saw it? He remembered it being barely visible from under Gertrude’s precise lettering. Now it seemed to push itself to the forefront. A trick of the light, perhaps?

He ran his thumb over it the slightly raised texture, counting the lashes that surrounded the eye. He hissed as a sharp sting on his chest startled him into nearly dropping the page. The pain was gone before it fully registered. Jon pulled down the collar of his borrowed t-shirt expecting to see an echo of Gerry’s tattoo but saw nothing marking his flesh other than his usual collection of scars.  

The Archivist’s first impulse was to read the page aloud and ask Gerry what the hell that was just now. His lips were already starting to form the words when he caught himself. That wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing, he made a promise.  

The lighter weighted heavy in Jon’s hand. It wouldn’t take much, just a flick of the wrist and a twitch of the thumb, to bring forth a flame. 

_ Come on, Jon. Spin the wheel and make a spark. It’s easy, you do it every time you light a cigarette. You can do this, Gerry is counting on you _

The lighter fell from shaking hands and clattered on the table. It bounced once and fell to the floor. “Dammit.” Jon cursed as he bent down to retrieve it. His fingers fumbled it farther away from him causing him to drop to his hands and knees to reach it. 

“Come here you little-- Gotcha!” 

Jon nearly cracked his head on the table holding Gertrude’s case when he stood. Seeing it there, Jon was suddenly very aware of the lighter in his hand and the potential danger it posed when combined with the contents of the case. Plastic explosive is supposed to be relatively stable. He’s pretty sure it needs a detonator to actually explode so the lighter might not actually be the threat he fears. He doesn’t know that for sure though. 

It’s not actually the lighter that has him worried. What if something happens when he burns the page? It might be nothing more than a bit of fire and the smell of burning leather. It might not even burn at all. But it might be something more. He’s never dealt with this kind of Artefact before, and that’s what it would be categorized as if he were to bring it to the Institute, an Artefact. 

He can’t take the risk. If something were to happen he could blow himself to hell and take half the block with him. It can wait until after he gets the case to Daisy. 

 


	5. 5 - Balance

The Archivist found an odd comfort in keeping Gerry’s page. It was so easy to make excuses to justify his reluctance to destroy it. Too easy, knowing that such a rich source of information was at his fingertips. The potential was enormous, even if Jon was sure Gerry wouldn’t help him a second time, not willingly at least. Jon didn’t want to force him but found himself curious to know what would happen if he Asked. Curious, and ashamed, and not sure which was stronger. 

He had been starting at it long enough he was sure he would be able to draw the pattern of burn scars from memory. The way the skin warped and darkened told a story all its own. One Jon’s own flesh echoed faintly in his right hand; his own brush with the Lightless Flame. The Archivist wondered if he shared any other scars with the dead man. 

He could ask.

Jon set the page on the table in an attempt to curb the temptation to read the words aloud. What would happen if he started reading and didn't finish? Would Gerry be caught in a partially summoned state, trapped even more than he is now? Would that be better or worse than existing as painful nonexistence. 

He could ask.  

The Archivist should have known the dream would come. Of course it would, but he’d hoped to be spared that particular side effect of taking a statement just this once. The Archivist didn’t dream of the dead, only living fears haunted his slumber. Gerry was dead after all, but not dead enough apparently. 

He noticed the sound of dripping blood first. He knew it was blood as soon as he caught the smell, so thick it weighed on his tongue, sliding down the back of his throat in coppery sheets. The Archivist couldn’t see yet but he knew what would greet him when he can. All around him fresh pages hung from wires, every inch covered in writing the Archivist will never be able to read. In the center of a room stood an Acolyte. He owed a pound of flesh though he knows not why, he wasn’t the one who made the bargain, that person is long gone. Blood spilled won’t save him, he owes that too. In each shaking hand he held an object. 

The Acolyte looked to the Archivist with eyes full of fear and pain, and now that he recognized him, betrayal. His hands have steadied as the Acolyte brings the knife to his chest and begins to cut. 

Jon sat awake on the couch. It was after midnight, he should really go to bed and at least try to sleep. Did Gertrude suffer through nightmares like this? The answers were there for the taking, Gerry’s page was on the table where he left it, where it would stay for the timing being. 

He _could_ ask

All he would have to do is betray someone who wanted to see him as a friend, his only friend. A friend who has continued to allow him to suffer. Right now the weight of guilt was locked in stalemate with the need for answers. The perfect balance of indecision between summoning and burning. 

The Archivist left the page on the table to get ready for bed. He climbed under his blankets and hoped for a different dream. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. 6 - Record

He had the dream again, for the third night in a row now. This time was different though, Gerry’s eyes weren’t full of betrayal or even anger but instead a resigned disappointment. He clearly expected better of Jon. For his part, Jon wanted to _be_ better, tried to tell him, but no words would leave his mouth. He watched, again and again, Gerry make that first cut into himself.

He _wanted_ to burn the page, to free Gerry from the undying prison Gertrude trapped him when she bound him to the book. He had tried, genuinely tried, but there were always excuses, little things he could use to justify his actions. Or lack thereof. No excuses now, just him, Gerry’s page, and a lighter. He either did this tonight, now, or admitted to himself he never would.

The page was on the low table where he’d left it two nights ago. He’d been avoiding the room ever since, choosing instead to stand at the kitchen counter with his laptop or to do his recordings in the bedroom. Enough was enough, he has been the cause of so much pain in the lives of the people around him. He couldn’t fix the damage with Tim, or Melanie, or any of the others but at least he could do this.

Could he?

“Yes, goddammit I can _do this_.” Saying the words aloud didn’t help him to believe it anymore than he had before.

He still had the tape recorder. When did he not have a recorder these days? There is a part of him, the Archivist part of him that has a visceral reaction to the idea of destroying knowledge. Maybe if he does it on tape, leaves behind a record of the destruction, he can finally go through with it and fulfill his promise.

Jon was rambling, explaining his reluctance, his fear, as if that were any excuse to justify what he was doing. What he wasn’t doing. The page was soft in his hand. He should keep it, protect it from harm, save the precious knowledge of a man who had seen so much--

“ _Do it!”_

Every movement was an exertion, his breath heavy with it. He fought the urge to set the lighter down and instead spun the wheel to ignite a spark. A spike of pain lanced through his head at the sight of the flame causing him to nearly drop it. The closer the Archivist brought the page the more it hurt. A vice gripped his skull as he forced his hands against cold needles until at last fire met flesh.

A rush of white hot agony consumed his chest and Jon bit back a scream. As the ink burned away, the Archivist felt something inside him release. He was still nearly breathless with pain but he knew he wouldn’t have that particular dream again.

“You owe me one, Gerry. Rest in…” In what? Peace? The thought nearly made him laugh. Peace wasn’t something any of them could ever hope for.

“Just rest.”

Jon hoped he would be allowed to do the same someday.

The recorder clicked off and the pain in his head returned to the low level throbbing he’d long since become accustomed. The burning in his chest was a different story though. The skin felt hot and tight, any movement of his upper body pulled on it drawing a hiss of pain from behind clenched teeth. Removing his shirt to have a look took much longer than he would have liked. 

The flesh over his heart had been burned, seared with the words Gertrude had written on Gerry’s skin years ago. Looking closely in the mirror, Jon could just make out the shape of an eye buried among the precise letters.

He ran his finger along the outside edge of a wound the exact size and shape of Gerry's page. “What the hell?” 

The distinct smell of burning hair hung in the air as the Archivist traced his fingers over the letters. Was this some kind of punishment for his actions? To have the words he attempted to obliterate branded permanently into him in the same way he used to destroy them? He was suddenly relieved Gerry hadn’t asked him to slice his page to ribbons.

The words were a part of him now. The Archivist would carry with him the last moments of Gerard Keay until his own end. Digging around for his half used tube of burn cream, Jon hoped it would be a while until that day came.


End file.
